


Quiet

by whatthefrickfrackpaddywack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Confused Dean, Dean in Denial, Dean in a Suit, Dean's First Time With a Man, Dirty Talk, Everyone Is Gay, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Bar, Gay Panic, Happy Ending, Humiliation, I'm Going to Hell, I'm so sorry, Jealous Sam, Jealous Sam Winchester, Kisses, Light Angst, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Oral Fixation, Protective Sam, Public Blow Jobs, Sexuality Crisis, Size Difference, Size Kink, Size Queen Dean, Sub Dean, Sub Dean Winchester, Top Sam, Wincest - Freeform, but so are you, first time kisses, lets all just jump in the fucking trash together, lets all take a fucking bath with satan shall we, secret bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-07 14:59:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack/pseuds/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shut up or I'll gag you, princess."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (I had no idea what this would be until I had it down on the page)  
> I just want Dean floundering and confused and so turned on he's aching.

  "Oh, and before we get started...what's your safe word?"

  Dean was seeing red.

  Somewhere in this shit show of a Vegas impersonating town, a witch was running loose,  _killing_ people, twirling along the streets and sipping fucking margaritas for all they knew, and Dean was alone in a dirty warehouse with a 6"4 male dominatrix covered in spandex.

  Fucking magicians.

  They must've seen through his and Sam's fake I.D's, ( _Of  frigging' course_ they saw through their fake I.D's, they were  _magicians,_ they made a living off of conning people,) and set this up as some kind of a sick joke. Dean wondered to himself how often that bastard Charlie sent innocent men here as a form of entertainment, since he  _sure fucking knew_ the address off the top of his head.

  Magic Week in Iowa. Washed up stage acts furiously drilling against the emo boys in eyeliner. Not Dean's idea of a good time. But then people started dropping dead, and an old man named Jay started surviving suicidal performances, and Sam looked at him with those big brown eyes, _It's a case, De, and if we catch some shows it'll be for the case, and if we happen to get some popcorn and front row tickets and audience participation, it'll be for the case..._

  Dean needed to grow a fucking back bone and start telling his little brother no.

  "Listen, man. I think I got the wrong address. So you can...put the flogger away..."

  'Chief' laughed, a flowery little sound that had no right coming out of such a huge, leathery man. "Oh, is  _that_ how you wanna play this game?" He ran the black spangled whip over the palm of his hand, slow glide of spandex gloves rubbing tightly together, before pulling the thing back and  _smack,_ right back down again. "You got lost and you needed some friendly directions?"  _Smack!_

He chuckled awkwardly, tapering into a cough. "Uh, sure. I think. I can find my way out just fine, though, so you can, like, go back to the Disco party or something..." He started backing up. Slowly, as if moving too fast might startle the huge ass man and he'd charge. Chief just smirked and took a step forward, eyes raking over Dean's body in obvious appreciation _._ Deanslouched a little in defense, scanning the dark room for the exit and  _when did he lose sight of the fucking door, goddammit,_ when a sharp  _Smack,_ loud in awkward silence, brought Dean's eyes back to the problem at hand. "Dude, could you put that thing away for a second? Bit distracting." He ran a hand through his hair.

  "Hey, we get your type in here all the time. No reason to be nervous, sugar." Chief's hand reached to stroke over Dean's cheek, making him flinch away as the weight of his words settled over him.

  "What the fuck do you mean, my type?"

"Hey baby, no need to get all defensive now. It's pretty obvious why you're here, no need to explain." His palm finally connected with Dean's cheek, big enough to cover half his face and  _holy fuck_ that's weird. They were calloused, hard, the exact opposite of the pretty girls he touches when he gets the chance. Thankfully the whip was tucked somewhere out of sight. "Big butch bear like yourself, used to doing all the work, just needs to take some time out for himself, right? Needs to let go for a little while. Pretending all the time when all you want is a big, juicy dick up your-"

  "WHOA whoa whoa, let's not jump to conclusions, Galieth." Sweat clung lightly to the back of his neck, making him loosen his tie. Chief tracked the movement with an almost approving little hum. Dean snatched his hand back down and scowled.

  "It's nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart." Dean felt his shoulder hit the wall, hard, and oh my god that better not be spunk on the bottom of his shoe. "I get this on the daily. Over worked and over compensating, self-loathing Tops who desperately need to bottom but have a reputation to uphold? Relax, it's perfectly normal. And a big macho-man like you, suit all fancy and hair all trimmed... ( _I hate this stupid fucking suit goddAMNit,)_ I can practically  _smell_ the frustration coming off of you." And okay, so Dean hasn't gotten any in a while, but come on. He hunted monsters for a living. Sometimes there wasn't a whole lot of time for a fuck in a back alley when a shapeshifter was breathing down his neck. "But I always know what they need. And I know what you need, baby."

 Dean promptly indulged in a bit of a crisis, because Dean Winchester? Is not a pansy. Dean Winchester is extremely manly, and does manly things like drive a muscle car and shoot guns and kill things and eat a lot of meat on a very regular basis. No one should be looking at such a prime specimen of manliness and questioning Dean’s sexual orientation.

  So why the fuck did Charlie and what's-his-face send him  _here!?_  

  "C'mon, sugar. Tell me what you need." Sweet words and strong hands startled him back into the moment, chin being dragged back to face Chief by smooth leather on his jaw. Dean swallowed back a wise crack when he felt stubble scratching his cheek, breathe hitching when teeth tugged at his earlobe. 

  "I thought you knew what I needed, asshole." Dean mumbled, mind racing a million miles an hour because he was panicking, and he  _knew_ he was panicking, but his lips were being sealed off by a guys mouth, a fucking  _guy_ was kissing him, and big hands were holding his head in place, inching down his back, warm and solid and  _he's kissing a guy-_

"I do know what you need. And I know you need to say it." Amusement murmured against Dean's motionless lips, stubble rubbing across his own and it was  _new_ and _weird_ and he was slowly running out of excuses. He felt a twitch down the small of his back as fingers danced across his spine. He felt like his nerves were standing on edge, something in his brain going haywire because that huge fucking hand was too close to his ass, and Chief was sticking his tongue in his unresponsive mouth, and there was something hard poking his leg where their bodies were smashed together against the wall that he  _did not want to think about._

  Dean gasped, eyes screwed tight, when he felt the butterfly fingers turn into a greedy grope of his ass cheek, and his head was tilting into the kiss because Chief was fucking his tongue into his mouth, smiling slightly, wet and open and dirty like Dean was used to giving but never,  _ever_ receiving. His bottom lip was sucked between smirking teeth and Dean reached up and gripped the front of chiefs weird-ass leather shirt thing tight enough to feel the tendons in his hands stretch in protest. Chief was covering him, his entire body blocking him in in a way that made Dean feel  _small,_ something he hadn't been in fifteen years. Small and tense against Chiefs deep pressed kisses, huge hands spread out along Dean's ass cheeks, rubbing and grabbing and finally pulling them apart and Dean pulled back from the kiss to grind his teeth because  _oh god oh god oh god what's happening..._  

  "Make some noise, baby. I wanna hear you screaming my name." Steady. Chief's voice was steady, confident lips tracking to his neck and big fucking hands spreading his ass cheeks apart. Dean's eyes were clamped so tight he could see little green flecks popping up under his eyelids, biting his swollen bottom lip between his teeth because  _that spot how did he find that spot so fast,_ the space between his neck and his shoulders, making him scrunch up and bite back because  _no way in hell_ was he gonna make a sound. He jerked forward when a thick middle finger slipped between his crack, through his stupid suit pants, rubbing hard and fast, and nobody had ever touched him like this before. Nobody had ever fucked his mouth open like this, made his lips puffy and pliant and so fucking needy, nobody had ever dug their fucking finger into his perineum through his fucking pants, nobody had ever made Dean feel so fucking  _small..._

  "Hey, I still need a safe word, dude..." Chief's voice, deep and flirtatious, made his eyes snap open. Dean felt like a wreck; Hot and tense and so goddamn confused, used to taking the lead and floundering when he suddenly wasn't in charge anymore.

  He panted through pinky wet lips, eyebrows scrunched together and eyes wide as he stared up at the first man to ever kiss Dean Winchester.

  "I-I'm straight." He whispered. He was trembling,  _what the fuck, stop being such a girl,_ hands clutched to thick broad shoulders, trying so goddamn hard not to grind his ass against the hands still holding him he thought he was going to explode. "I'm straight," He repeated. He nodded slightly to himself, as if saying the words would make his aching dick go soft again. His teeth  _ached_ with the effort not to push into the answering erection pressing at his stomach, needing the candy sweet friction so bad, wanting it so bad, and he was _so fucking confused..._

  Chief snorted." 'I'm straight'? Good one, man." His eyes twinkled, perfectly together while Dean felt his entire world shifting all around him. "Perfect safe word."

  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kid like you don't want me to be sweet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out this is gonna be multi chaptered after all, fellas. (Ya'll just wouldn't stop asking, smh.)  
> This one is about suckn' DICK.  
> Enjoy <3

It's been three weeks.

And Dean can't stop thinking about it.

Poor Chief was left dazed with a bleeding nose and two broken fingers, Iowa left far behind 'em after that  _asshole_ Charlie ended up being a he-witch using black magic to up their performances. Three weeks later, two states over, and Dean can't stop fucking thinking about it.

Dean was a manly man, a gun wielding, burger eating, all-american macho man with a sick car and a leather jacket. He liked big tits and soft skin, bubble gum lipstick and sugar sweet kisses. He liked high pitched moans, compliant bodies yielding under thick fingers. He liked girls. And that was final.

But he couldn't get the  _smell_ out of his brain, the musky scent of deep cologne sinking into his skin. It was seared into his mind, flooding his senses with the scratch of stubble rubbing his red cheeks raw. God, nobody had ever kissed him like that. When Dean kissed, it was hard and dirty, wringing out whimpers from the lucky girl he'd gone home with.  _He_ was the one in control, the one cradling flushed cheeks and murmuring dirty promises. He wasn't the breathless one, the desperate one, drunk on dirty kisses and thick hard hands. He wasn't supposed to be speechless, incoherent thought drifting passed an out of touch mind while little wet noises escaped puffy lips. He was supposed to take care of 'em, not the other way around. Yet he'd stood there and taken it, been manhandled and groped and (fuck) he'd actually  _liked_ it.

He liked it so much.

"You can't salt and burn a unicorn, Dean, are you  _high_?"

But as it was, with people mysteriously dying and Sam’s emo overflowing all over the place, Dean was a little preoccupied.

Sammy was (thank _god_ ) oblivious to his older brothers ongoing internal crisis, puttering around the too small motel room.

"Well I don't see you coming up with any better ideas, hotshot."

He grunts, running a hand through his hair. He needs to get it cut. "It doesn't make any _s_ _ense._ We're smack dab in the middle of the city, what's it even  _doing_ here?"

"Pursuing a life of crime and stripping."

"You're not helping, princess."

"I told you to stop calling me that." Dean wrinkles his nose. "We didn't even know these things  _existed_ until an hour ago when Sprinkles tried to turn you into a shish-cabob."

Sam flops down on the bed beside him, face pressed up against a fluffy motel pillow, and screams.

Dean sighs and scooches over, stroking a hand through his miserable little brothers too long hair.

"Are you upset that the guardians of rainbows and sugar-plumbs are actually douchnozzles?"

Sam tenses ever so slightly, before huffing out a sigh and leaning into his big brothers side. He nods.

"You wanna get some Chinese and watch Star Wars?"

_nod._

Dean grins and scratches at his scalp affectionately. "You're so gay." That earns him a half hearted elbow to the ribs, mopey baby brother curling indignantly against him as they tried to crack this impossible case.

 

Dean snuck out after Sammy fell asleep.

The poor kid was obsessing over the disappearance of Amy Walker, the existence of city slicker unicorns who apparently pimped out crack, and the disturbing rumors of cannibalism being dished out down town. He needed as much sleep as he could get, as much Chinese food as he could eat, and as much affection as he was willing to ask for.  Dean was ripped from Hell and thrust into a world of Angles and brimstone, destinies and fate. The looming apocalypse and the destruction of the world wasn't exactly steady grounds for rebuilding trust in a relationship. Dean sold his soul, tortured hundreds in hell, broke the first seal. Sam drank fucking _demon_ blood and released the goddamn devil. But after Dean got highjacked forward five years into an existence _without_ Sammy, a life where his baby brother stood before him as nothing less then an angel condom...well.

He'd seen what he would become without him.

So fuck this, fuck that, fuck them, fuck nope. "The Righteous Man" was a sinner and "The Boy King" was a saint. The kid Dean used to lullaby to sleep, the kid who won’t consume anything that was once alive, the kid with the puppy dog eyes and the geeky Star Trek t-shirt, is supposed to be the vessel of Satan.

Nah, bitch.

He'd been right about one thing; Sammy was, and always will be, his weakness. You can't look into the eyes of the child you practically raised and see anything but soft and innocent and small, no matter how tall Sam gets or how tough he wants him to think he is. They make each other weak, which is why Sammy needed him more then ever.

Which is why Dean needed to get these  _stupid. Fucking. Thoughts_ out of his head for good.

The perks of taking a case in the city was that everybody was a little insane. Cops were constantly busy, thus they couldn't tail 'em out of boredom and typically didn't give a rats ass whether or not the apartment smelled like sulfur. The food was fast and cheap, the sketchy hours they worked weren't questioned, and their motel manager just assumed they were on drugs when he overheard them talking about decapitating mythological creatures. Dean was a small town boy at heart, all american apple pie man with a taste for stars and driftwood. But the city held a dark appeal, of jazz and salt and oil.

Plus there were strip clubs.

_So many strip clubs._

Dean tilted his head back and swallowed down the last of his whiskey, grimacing slightly and signaling for the bartender to get him another. He sat smack dab in the middle of the bar, cigarette smoke and girly drinks clashing with the smell of salt and sweat. The music pulsed at his back, night crowd beginning to reach it's peak as the stools around him filled up fast and easy with blue eyeshadow and black liner. He spun around in his seat, (because he was trying to get laid, not because they were spinny stools and spinning around was awesome,) and pressed his back to the cool of the bar, scanning the crowd for someone he wouldn't remember the name of in the morning. Teeny tight skirts and bubble gum lips sent him winks from the swarthing sways of the dance floor, low cut tops blowing kisses, but he just looked passed the slight brunette and the giggling girls to his right. Normally by now he'd be high off the taste of soft skin in his hands and his lap, but nothing was sticking. Nothing was working. He just felt slightly awkward and a little bit sick from the smell of too much perfume.

The bartender set a drink down in front of him, and he swiveled back around, (they should put swivel chairs  _everywhere,_ ) and before Dean had a chance to grab it, the girl leaned in close to be heard over the thump of cheap synthesizers.

"It's from the man at the end of the bar." She said simply, and walked away to deal with a laughing lady's order.

Dean's blood ran cold.

He sat there staring at his drink, cool pink liquid over fancy round cubes, hand clutched tight enough around the crystal glass for the knuckles to go white. 

_It's from the man at the end of the bar._

Jesus Christ.

He finally glances up, unsure and wide eyed, as he makes eye contact with a blonde in a suit.

The man doesn’t smile, or wave back. He just arches an eyebrow and leans forward on the bar.

Dean shivers.

His hand is still tendon popping tight around the sugery glass in his hand when he feels another body sidle close next to his. He's flushing cherry tight pink, strung high on  _what the fuck_  and nervous like a school girl. The bar is crowded, smoky, and too hot, everything smelling like whiskey and sweat around him as he presses against the bar, nameless blond leaning in to breathe hot against his ear.

"I suppose this is the part where I drop a shitty pickup line about seeing an angel fall from heaven." Smirk set on thin lips, stubble hard against a Hollywood jawline.

Dean snorts. The irony. "I've heard worse."

"You've _used_ worse," a large palm, big and steady, slinks around his waist to rest on a shaking thigh. "See,  boys like us don't got time for the chit-chat when the engines running and work starts at seven." Long fingers inch up higher, snaking in tight. Dean presses his legs together and shakes. Blondie just rolls his eyes and swivels the chair around, ( _godfuckingkn chair stupidchair traiture chair-)_ Slotting himself between Dean's legs, (he did not squeal he is a macho manly man oh god,) And presses grinning teeth against a red and twitching neck. 

"Kid's like us don't have time to be sweet." He's taller than Dean. Just slightly. Almost unnoticeable, and he's slighter. Shoulders not as broad, skin not as calloused, but he's a man, he smells like a man, musky earthy heady cologne soaking into frozen limbs- "Kid like you don't want me to be sweet." 

Dean vaugly realizes that he's panicking again, otherwise he would've busted this guys nose five seconds ago. Instead, he's stock still. The only thing telling him apart from a statue is the thump of his pulse and the shaking of his hands.

“I'll do things to you that you've never even heard of, baby.”

 A pink tongue slips out to barely graze an earlobe, candy green eyes widening in shock.  _This isn't happening._

 “Bet you want to be really bad for me, don't you? Do all those dirty things you can't tell your boyfriend about?”

 Thick hands. Long, hard, thick hand's running up the insides on Dean's bowlegs,  _when the fuck did he spread his legs-_

 “Make you beg for it, baby. Get you so worked up for my cock you'll wanna cry.”

 Dean licks his bubble gum lips, slow and wet. His exhale is shaky. What the fuck is he doing,  _what the fuck is he doing,_ that's his line, these are his moves, this is his job but he's shaking so so hard and that little pink tongue is running down his neck and his hands hurt from gripping the bar too tight.

“Hold you down, pull your hair... might not even take your clothes off, might just push your little panties to the side and fuck you just like that.”

Dean's eyes squeeze tight. He's close to hyperventilating, doesn't want to freak the guy out, and his hands hurt. His cock is twitching in his jeans, big hands inching closer and closer to his crotch and _they are in public oh god oh god._ He bites his lip and nods, fast and jerky, doesn't even realize he's doing it and a chuckle is the only warning he gets before a tongue is fucking his mouth.

It's kissing in the most artless, sloppy sense, everything so hot and rubbed-raw it's hard to tell whether it's good or not. Stubble catches rough and drags Dean's blushed skin taut, plump mouth opens slack and soundless, breath pitched and thin as blondie digs his fingers into Dean's skin. Dean wants to moan, little whimpers getting stuck in his clenched tight throat as hands reach around and grip his ass, teeth catching his bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth. Dean can't breathe, hands still clutching the table top like a lifeline, hips making unconscious little jerks that flush him red with humiliation. He wants to groan, growl,  _Jesus Christ he wants to beg,_ but he scrunches his eyes tight and holds the stupid little sounds in. 

A palm kneeds his crotch,  _hard,_ and that's it. His hands fly up and grab at a black suit jacket that probably costed more then his car, fingers tangling into the lapels and angling his head to the side because he needs it  _deeper,_ wants those girlfriend kisses  _harder,_ needs it dirty and demanding because he is not in control of what's happening and it's choking him.

Blondie pulls away slowly with a wet sucking sound that turns Dean's ears pink.

"Bathroom?"

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

The bartender just rolls her eyes when Blondie says, steady but breathless, "Put his drinks on my tab." She winks at Dean as they're walking away though, spine strung tight with a large hand on his ass. Where’s the homophobia and small-mindedness when you need it?

Dean's expecting more girlfriend kisses when the door shuts behind them, already leaning in after the thumping bass line gets locked out of the dimly lit stall, but Blondie has other plans, apparently. 

"God, your fucking mouth." He groans, back hitting the door when Dean opens up, hot and nervous, around a thumb sticking in from the corner. He licks at it softly, shakily, until Blondie shoves his pointer between kiss swollen bubble gum lips. Dean closes his mouth and squeezes his eyes, sucking hard and wet because he's done this with girls before and always loved it when the licked his fingers, and blondie is making these low growly sounds that sat at the bottom of his stomach and make his knees weak. His elbows are shaking and his hands are boxing blondie in, and he can't get enough air in his chest.

"So pretty, you're so fucking pretty-" Another finger jabs into his mouth and Dean wants to moan, sucking hard and scraping his teeth with his eyes squeezed tight and his cheeks bright red. The hand not currently in his mouth is groping his ass roughly, pulling Dean in closer until he can...he can feel Blondies dick. Blondie's hard and he's pressing his dick against Dean's hip and squeezing his ass, pulling his hand away and bringing it back down  _hard,_ jesus christ, and Dean's leaking and shaking and _oh._  He doesn't know whether he should shove his hips forward or rock back into the burn against his ass, thick fingers rubbing down his fucking crack oh god oh god...

Suddenly hands were being relocated, pressing down hard on his shoulders and Dean's weak knees collapse under him, bringing him face to face with a thick, throbbing...

_Jesus Christ._

"Look at you, so hard and pretty, your plump pink mouth all wet and open." Blondie reaches for his belt, steady hands pulling leather from the loops. Dean's heart is thundering in his chest, throat tight and green eyes wide as his mind jumps off the tracks and into hyper speed.  _He is not gonna suck a fucking dick, he is NOT going to put some random guys junk in his mouth, he is not gonna-_ "You gonna be a good boy for me and let me fuck that pretty mouth?"

...Damnit.

Dean leans forward slowly, shaking hands sliding against narrow hips clad in thousand dollar material. He's aching in his jeans, twitching  _hard_ as he slides down the zipper and gets a clammy palm against the guys boxers. He rubs slowly, nervous and embarrassed and so turned on,  _what the fuck is wrong with him._ Blondie growls and jerked forward impatiently. 

Dean tilts his head to rest against blondie's pant leg, watching as he thumbs along the length in his hand almost drunkenly. He's breathing hard, deep inhales the only sound he's capable of making at the moment, and finally reaches in and awkwardly gets the guy out of his boxers.

This is..

Its...

Dean's bigger, thicker around the middle, but the leaking red head in front of his nose looks like the most intimidating thing he's ever seen. His limbs feel heavy and numb, hot panting leaving wet pink mouth while his hand grips around the first dick he'd ever touched that wasn't his own.

"C'mon, baby, nothing to be scared of..."Blondie's hands are suddenly in his hair, huge paws gripping the back of his neck and pulling him forward till his lips tentatively kiss the tip, recoiling almost instantly. "God, you've never done this before, have you? First time getting those gorgeous lips wrapped around a fat cock. Can't believe it, your mouth was fucking  _made_ for this shit, baby..." Dean swallows down a noise and works his hand up and down awkwardly, bringing it forward till he can poke his tongue out and balk at the taste. "Fuck you're so pretty, hot little mouth so greedy for my kisses, couldn't wait to see it wrapped around my dick. Plump cock-sucking lips on such a pretty face..." Dean opens his mouth wide as it can go and sets the head against his tongue. "Don’t worry, we’ll get that throat nice and open for everybody else.”

The wet choking sound he makes when blondie thrusts in makes him throb.

 “Alright, baby, so good, you’re doin’ such a good job.”

 Dean struggles to get away, gagging on the dick in his mouth when blondie works his hips forward more. "shhh, baby, that's it, just take a little bit more, you'll be begging for it soon enough," but the hands tightening in his hair seem to calm him, pulling him limply forward and forcing him to open farther, relax faster, before the thick thing inside his mouth is pulled back and the whole process starts back over. "You've got a mouth made for sucking, so pretty you could make a grown man cry." Dean's the one crying, eyes wide and trusting against a total stranger as tears and snot leaked down his face to touch his lips stretched out around him. He was begining to rock forward, leaking so much precum he was bound to have a stain, throbbing every time he gagged, and was the dick in his mouth getting  _bigger!? “_

Suddenly the man above him starts grunting, hands yanking his hair and making his eyes burn when he starts fucking forward in earnest. Dean can't get the whole thing in his mouth, throat burning every time a particular hard thrust forces in farther than he can go. He can barley breath, barley think, and the taste is fucking disgusting. He keeps gagging, wet slapping sound pumping through his ears, and he shouldn't be this hard right now, he shouldn't be hard _at all,_  god he's _never been so confused in his life._

Dean sucks in all the whimpers, all the keening sounds and just grips the back of blondies thighs and drags him forward. He wants it deeper, it hurst so bad and he feels like he's gonna vomit and a stranger is face fucking him in a goddamn bathroom. He's using his mouth as nothing but a hole, something hot and tight to fuck into. Dean's gagging and spit and snot and tears are smearing the front of his shirt, and the hand in his hair is yanking so hard and there's a dick in his mouth, _there's a_ _dick in his mouth-_

He’s dripping like a stream, and now that he thinks about it he's rocking down like his body thinks he’s fucking, hips thrusting against blondie's thousand dollar pant leg.

He abruptly realizes, as blondie lets out a gruff ‘unh’ sound and holds his head still when the head hits the back of his screaming throat, that he’s going to come in point two seconds flat.

The time between that thought and the moment is infinitesimal, but when blondie pulls back and thrusts back into his mouth, taste of precum coating his tounge and head shoved farther back than it's ever been, _Dean_  is the one who cries out, muffled around a mouth stuffed with cock. Once, twice, and comes violently in his jeans.

Blondie stares down at him, gone limp and twitching and lips still stretched full.

“Did you just...?” he pants, eyes wide.

Dean shudders, unable to speak, still spasming and riding out his climax into blondie's leg. He chokes back a hurt, desperate sound and squeezes his eyes shut with embarrassment.

Just like that, he's left empty, dry-heaving against the cold linoleum floor, as blondie shoots his load on his face. 

Blondie pulls him up, strip club lights glinting off the string of spit running from Dean's chapped lips to the warm, sticky cum on his chin.

"God, imagine what your  _ass_ feels like.”

Dean is hauled up into big arms, boneless and sobbing quietly, Blondie happy to kiss the tears off his flushed face.

He's looking at him in amazement, earlier swagger all but gone in the face of Dean's quiet sexuality crisis. He cradles his head in his hands, thumb swiping through the mess of cum on Dean's flushed freckled face. He's breathing hard, swipes two fingers through the mess and brings them up to Dean's mouth.

At first he flinches back, breath going almost erratic, but Blondie just shushes him and softly gropes his ass, kneeding pressure that's making Dean's knees go week and his sensitive dick gives a valient effort to fill again.

"C'mon, baby, open up for me. Lick it up for Daddy, c'mon."

He's too tired to protest, hips pumping forward in shaky burst when blondie pushes his cum into Dean's fucked out mouth. He scoops more in, Dean sucking nervously each time, gentle hands palming his cheek and his ass once its all gone.

Dean gets more girlfriend kisses, an invitation to go back to his place, and a phone number.

He deletes it the second he's back in the car, furious fists pounding against the steering wheel as he finally, finally screams. He drives back to a sleeping baby brother, a baby boy with no clue that the man who made him soup when he was sick, the man who killed the monsters under his bed, the man who bottle fed him from crib to crawl, just let a stranger into his mouth.

And he liked it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, but I promise, it'll be worth it.  
> This chapter is dedicated to Gemma, because she loves this thing more then me and she keeps me motivated to write it. Hope you like it, hun!

 

Sammy's getting worried.

He thinks it's  _depression,_ the poor bastard.

"Please, just talk to me, man. You've been disappearing on me every night for like a week now."

"There ain't nothin' to talk about, dude." Dean chucklesanother spoonful of rocky road into his mouth, resolutely  _not_ looking at his brother, hand on his hips like a fucking nerd.

"Fine. Then you won't mind staying in and watching Pacific Rim with me-"

"No can do, kiddo. I gotta do something."

Sam throws his hands in the air in exasperation. How cute. "What could you _possibly_ need to do right now!? We finished that witch this morning, we're supposed to be hanging out tonight!"

Dean winces a little at that. Typically, post-case nights involved take out and a movie marathon, just the two of them, and Sammy looks like someone just drowned a sack full of kittens. But Dean is suffocating. The witch hunt took longer than he'd anticipated, and there was no time to sneak away while angry house wives started killing off the PTA bake sale competition. He needs to get out, and he can't look Sammy in the eye with the knowledge of what he's gonna do tonight. "Hey, don't be like that. I'll take you out tomorrow, promise."

"I don't  _want_ you to take me out! I'm not a chick, Dean!"

Dean snickered. "Could've fooled me."

Suddenly, the carton of delicious sugary regret is yanked out of his hands, and Sam kneels down between his legs.

Dean freezes.

"De, you can talk to me. Please? I just...did I do something?" Large hands snake around him to settle along his hips, gripping tightly and making Dean's heart stutter. "I'm sorry, okay? Whatever happened, I can make it up to you..." Those puppy dog eyes were looking up at him desperately, broad shoulders boxing him in and even though Sam was the one on his knees Dean felt so vulnerable, so  _small,_ and when did his baby brother get so _big?_

Dean laughs awkwardly, hands flailing a bit before finally settling one behind him and one on top of Sam's head. "You didn't do nothn' wrong, Sammy. What gave you that idea?" Sam leans into the contact, eyelids fluttering and mouth tightening into a hard line. It looks subconscious. "Just got a lot on my mind, we'll go do something fun tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow? Why can't we do something tonight?" Sammy whines, petulant little bastard, leaning forward and burrowing his head into Dean's stomach and  _what the fuck, get up get out go the fuck away-_

Dean's heart is hammering. "Hey, you gotta move, dude. Your huge head is blocking my path to the door."

"Good." He grumbles. Strong arms slither around his back and pull him closer, forcing Dean's legs open farther  _shit shit what the hell you sick fuck._ "Maybe my huge head can convince you not to leave."

Warm breathe soaks through his flannel and kisses his skin, needy baby brother holding him and this in't normal. They don't normally do this. Even Dean's fucked up, cross wired brain knew that they don't touch like this, Sam between his bow legs and holding him tight in huge, strong arms  _nope fuck this shit-_

Dean jumps up, dislodging Sam who falls backwards onto his ass in surprise.

"De?" Wide eyed and confused, cheeks a pretty pink that Dean needs to stop fucking looking at.

"Gotta go." He grunts.

"Wait, Dean-"

Dean feels a sharp sting of guilt as he slams the door shut behind him.

 

\---------------------

 

This has been happening for weeks. 

Dean's terrifying sexuality crisis was just getting some wires crossed or something. Sam's tall; Dean likes tall guys. Apparently. Sam's big, Dean likes big guys.

Apparently.

It's still so new, and gut wrenching fear stabs his gut at the thought of someone finding out, and it's abso-fucking-lutley  _horrible_ timing, what with the apocalypse going down and Sam's new found clingy-ness, but Dean thinks he likes dick.

Well. When you go out every other night because you start getting angsty if you haven't sucked a cock in the last forty-eight hours, he thinks it's safe to say that he a little more than  _likes_ it.

He's addicted.

Ew. That sounds wrong.

But it is. Not wrong that he's into dudes, (apparently.) He's an open minded guy and he doesn't give a shit who puts what in their mouth. It's just...he never thought that  _he_ was...you know.

Dean likes women. He likes soft breasts and long hair and sticky lipgloss.

But he also likes broad shoulders and huge hands and a dick in his mouth.

Gah. It's still so weird.

He's not even gonna  _think_ about labeling whatever's going on with him right now, not when Castiel is heaven's bitch again and Bobby's still in the wheelchair. And while Sam's been noticing how jumpy and nervous he's been acting around him,  _stupid brain doesn't know what's off limits,_ he's actually been doing better. On hunts, in interrogations, on not saying yes to being an angel condom. Heh. Turns out all he needed was to get laid.

Ugh. Stop it.

Dean sat with his chest to the bar, salt sticking to his finger tips and girly drink in hand. He tugs uncomfortably at the collar of his black shirt, too tight and not nearly warm enough. He yearned for flannel and leather, baggy jeans and whiskey, but he's been doing this for long enough now to realize what gets him what he needs.

Leather and whiskey gets his dick sucked. Which is nice and all, but the boys all look too young and too small, and he would've gone somewhere else if he was looking for control. 

Tight shirts and smooth cheeks get him fruity drinks and thick fingers pushing into his ass in a dirty bathroom stall.

He'd discovered the prostate on accident, when a sweet smile begged him to let him touch him there, just a little bit, rough beard grinning against his back when the guy found it on the first try. Dean was braced against the door, pants gone and brain screaming as he sweat and and trembled in strong arms. The guy had been so _sweet,_ gentle and coaxing, and Dean's tight shirt was rucked up to his armpits, nipples so hard and raw from tweaking them himself because  _holy fuck,_ that finger was huge, and it was pushing  _inside of him,_ thick and steady, and his hole pulsed even as tears stung his eyes from how scared he was. Dean hitched up all over, hips trying to jump back and away. It was horrible, invasive, the guy might as well have sunk his fingers into his eye socket. Dean slammed his palm against the stall door and whispered “Fuck, stop, stop, please.”  
  
The guy just shushed him, sounding almost amused, and turned his fingers, vertical then horizontal. Dean felt the barely there sensation of fingertips pressing around within, taptap. Hot saliva filling his mouth was the warning he got, slapping a hand over his lips as his stomach contracts and acid filled the empty space in his mouth, dry heave making his eyes water, until he shook his head and swallowed, keeps swallowing. It hurt, _it hurt,_ but he was pushing down, trying to get more of it inside him, trying to keep it there every time the guy pulled it out only to fuck back inside  _faster faster harder Daddy._  He scraped his nails against his nipple, pulled it hard, biting his lip when the finger slicked with nothing but Dean's own spit pulled in and out, in and out, before crooking into a spot deep inside of him. He came so hard he blacked out, and woke up to ticklish kisses licking into his mouth, full on straddling a stranger in a dirty bathroom with a finger still stuck in his ass. 

Kieth, the Blondie who popped his blow job cherry, had told him his mouth was made for it.

The bearded man from Michigan told him something similar.

( _"Look at my fingers inside of you," he'd whispered, holding a still shaking Dean in his_ lap, _warm belly blanketing him in what felt alarmingly like affection. "Look at how easy you're taking it."_

 _Dean holds a whimper in the lump in his throat, squirming down when a big hand rubs against his nipple,_ hard.

_"You were made for this, boy. You were made to take it so good, so easy." He slides his index finger against the red rim, tracing it. "Look at this hole. C'mon, boy. Look at it."_

_Dean looked down, mouth slack and face beet red, and saw. His hole was puffy, pink and winking around the guys middle finger. Dean squeezed his eyes and burrowed back into the pine-needle smelling shirt in front of him._

_"Shh, s'okay baby. No reason to get embarrassed. You got such a pretty little hole, don'tcha?  So good for me, so good for Daddy. Gonna be so good for someone, when you're ready.")_

They were in Black Water Delaware, riding the edge of nowhere right into backwoods America, and this was kinda dangerous. He couldn't just waltz in and proposition some guy for fear of getting his ass handed to him with a bullet on the the side. But he could be subtle, show the right amount of macho and the right amount of skin to get him noticed only by the people he wanted to notice him. He'd been flirting almost subconsciously with his bartender for a good ten minutes when he finally feels a warm palm spread over his shoulder.

Dean swallows passed the initial terror in his stomach and turns around, cocky grin stuck in place and fruity drink in hand. Seriously, how did Sammy  _drink_ this shit?

Speaking of Sammy.

"Dean, whatare you _wearing_!?"

Dean proceeds to spill the entire contents of his drink down the front of his shirt. (He did not shriek. He  _did not.)_

"What the  _hell,_ Sam!?" Sam is red cheeked from more than the cold, his jaw working furiously as he takes in where they were.

"You're in a fucking  _bar,_ Dean!" He hisses.

He grabs a napkin and starts cleaning up the mess of sugary alcohol soaking into his shirt. "Wow, really? I thought this was the local Walmart. I must've made a wrong turn."

"Oh, _what the fuck_   _ever_ _,_ princess _."_ Sam fumes and snatches the napkin out of his hand, scrubbing too hard against black cotton. "You skipped out on me, on  _our night,_ because you wanted to get _laid!?"_

Dean awkwardly tries to stay still as Sam rubs across his chest, holding his breathe,  _stop it right now young man,_ and burns hot with guilt. For skipping out on Sammy, for needing this so much he couldn't fucking _think,_ for getting caught...

wait.

"Sam, did you fucking  _follow_ me!?"

Sam stops then, hand clutching the back of the chair too tight in a white knuckled grip, and bows his head. "...no."

Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation. "What the hell, man?"

"I needed to know what could've been so important that you'd just  _leave."_ He wines, high cheekbones hidden under scarlet and hair. Damn, he really needs that haircut. His eyes flash then, back to indignation and bitch-face #17. "And it turns out you're just  _pulling._ I can't BELIEVE you, man!"

Dean chuckles awkwardly, glancing at the table behind them that was starting to perk up at the little scene they'd been making for themselves. "Hey, it's the end of the world. I can spend it how I like."

"We should be spending it  _together,_ De!" He looks so desperate, puppy dog eyes wide and hurt and confused, so young and needy. A spoiled baby brother stuck in a too large man body, greedily taking up all of Dean's time and attention and thoughts and dreams.

Sam's hand reaches around to cradle the back of Dean's neck, shaking slightly with the intensity of words unsaid. Words he doesn't have to say outloud to understand them.

Puppy dog eyes and silent begging, the face of a baby boy that had no right sitting in a body so big.

It's the end of the world, with the devil three feet behind and the Angels two steps ahead, and they're here.

Alive.

Together.

Dean swallows back his words unsaid and smiles. "Bethcha twenty bucks I can beat you at pool."

 

\---------------------

 

The pool tables are at the back, away from the nighttime bustle and closer to the cigarette fog. Dean drags Sam over to them as soon as they've gotten a beer each, (there's no way in _hell_ he's gonna subject himself to another Smirnoff if he's not pulling; His wires may be crossed, but he's not a  _total_ masochist,) and proceeds to hold true to his word and kick Sam's ass. He plays a bit more aggressively then usual, thoughts of going easy on the kid driven out of his mind quickly and unconscious. Sam looks like he could care less, handing over the twenty with a dimpled grin, limbs lax and tipsy, looking safe for the first time in days.  
  
Dean's plan to work off his frustrations in dark leather and big hands didn't work so well. The guilt from leaving in the first place was chewing into his abdomen every time Sam bitches over his shoulder, twinkle in his eye and hair in his face. He settles for barely letting Sam get a shot in, shooting him sharp-edged grins whenever he pulls off a particularly tricky shot, and Sam's suggesting heading out, because he still wants to watch pacific Rim, and  _As long as you don't drop anything on the bed, we can pick up some chili cheese fries._

The pool table next to them is being used by a gang of rough, big dudes, full blown beards under baseball caps, who keep talking just a little bit loud and push each other around just a little too violently. Sam, used to hanging out at biker bars, ignores their blatant staring. Doesn't even seem to notice. Just keeps laughing at Dean's horrible jokes and shoving him over with his hip, dimpled cheeks and flushed neck, already looking forward to their night in. Dean's hyper aware of the tightness of his shirt, the way it rides up every time he leans down to score a shot. He can feel unpleasant gazes touching the backs of his legs.

"Oh, Jesus, looks like they brought the fags to town." The obvious ring leader calls out. Sam slows his movements slightly, glancing at Dean in confusion.  
  
One of his friends grimace. "Man," he snarles, "I thought this was a decent bar."  
  
Dean's facing away from them, leaning over the table to set up a shot, but he can hear them. Ringing loud in his ear like a fucking bell. His spine stiffens, then relaxed slowly. He takes his shot as if he hasn't heard, ass in the air and fury coated across his chest. He's mad at these assholes for the blatant disrespect. He's mads at himself for wearing this stupid shirt. He's mad at Sam for showing up, smiling so big, looking for all the world like he's on a date and not even making an effort to hide it.

He's mad that he isn't getting fucking laid tonight.

"Hey, I think we should go," Sam murmures, leaning down to press thin lips close to his big brothers ear. Always one to avoid conflict. Dean grunts, doesn't move from his position bent over the table, red hot with embarrassment and stubborn anger. A warm palm presses to the small of his back. "C'mon, man. We can pick up those weird gummy frogs from the gas station." Fingers spread wide, _so big,_ covering from almost one side to the other, and Dean's brain is crossing wires again in it's coiled up confusion. The table next to them is glaring daggers, cruel smiles gracing beer snug mouths. 

Fuck nope. He ain't giving them the satisfaction of thinking they ran 'em out.

 _One more game,_ then they'll go back to the motel and watch a shitty action movie, curl up in a bed too small for even one of them, cheese fries and rocky road and comfort. Dean takes to brushing up close to Sam as he moves around the table between shots and when Sam takes one of his few and far between turns, Dean stands too close behind him and murmures advice close to his ear.  
  
Sam glares at Dean the first time he does it, and Dean grins unrepentantly back. He stifles a sigh - _Dude, I'm not helping you start a bar fight._ But he doesn't protest too openly, leaning into the touches after a while, falling into the game with an easy grace that Dean isn't going to think about when Sam's hand  _(bigwarmbighardbig)_ slips into Dean's back pocket.  
  
It takes the men a while to notice the shift in dynamic, Sam's drunken giggles replaced by barely contained laughter every time an elbow presses too rough, a touch lands awkwardly. Snickers and breathy _you're stepping on my toe_ 's follow tensed shoulders when Sam presses a little too close against his back, belt buckle touching jeans and making Dean's heart putter out beneath him. Once they  _do_ notice, Dean can almost feel the tension ratcheting up another notch every time Sam lets his fingers linger too long on his back, press in too close while he's taking a shot. They don't say anything immediately, content to just offer Sam and Dean hard glares, to mutter dark things to each other that would no doubt have made Dean kick their asses if he'd heard them.  
  
Dean's distraction from the game of pool, as opposed to the game of baiting homophobes, means that Sam finally has a chance to win, and when he pots the black and stands back from the table with a triumphant grin, _did you see that, De?_ written serendipitously across his face, Dean gives him a big, proud smile. "Well done, baby," he says, and pats Sam's ass just to make him squirm and bitch.  
  
Sam's still stuck on _Baby?! Really, Dean?_ when things turn nasty.  
  
"Excuse me," says a guy that had to have been as tall as Sam _at least_ , "Do you think you and your bitch could turn it down a bit? You're putting me off my game."  
  
Dean's eyes narrow, because he'd been talking directly to Sam, wtf, before he turns round to face the guy.  
  
"Maybe you should spend a little less time peeping, and a little more shooting," he drawls "Me and my boy ain't doing anything wrong."  
  
Sammy rolls his eyes in indignation, arms crossed and head down like the good little pacifist.  
  
"You're making me feel sick," counters the guy, (looks like a Steve, let's go with that,) throwing his cue down on the table. His friends come round to back him, and Dean can feel Sam sizing them up, huffing in annoyance because he  _really_ hadn't wanted to spend the night sore and tired. Dean winces internally, sends a mental apology.  
  
Dean grins. "What's wrong, baby? Scared you like what you're seeing?"  
  
The guys eyes widen, and Dean suddenly realizes. _Oh._

A sly smirk slides across his pretty pink mouth, eyes shining. He leans in farther until they're practically nose-to-nose, voice low so that only Steve can hear. "Scared you want me down on my knees for you?"

"Fucking faggots," he spits out, then reels back his fist and connects with Dean's wisecracking mouth, splitting his lip open, and just like that, it's on.  
  
The Winchester's were no stranger to bar brawls, and this one goes like most of 'em - Dean takes on several of the guys at once, moving too fast for them to get a solid punch in, while Sam stands (annoyed) at his back and keeps the rest of 'em occupied. The guys clearly have had experience with drunken fighting, but they're really no contest for a maniacal hunter and a huffing 6''5 Sasquatch, and after the first punch none of them manage to land any good hits on either of them.  
  
Sam lays out one guy who comes at him with a pool cue, arm stretched straight out to deck the guy running in from the left. He looks slightly guilty after the fact. Dean's baiting the lead man, lashing out with a punch that could've broken ribs and then dancing out of the way of his opponent's fist. Steve is cursing a mile a minute, anger burning thick as the cigarettes in the air, but Dean can see what's behind his eyes. The fear. The want. The hatred.

He's been seeing that look a lot in the mirror, recently.

"Not exactly my idea of foreplay, but I'll try anything once." Steve lunges then, and Dean easily sidesteps. "You never know what could get you in the mood. Get your dick hard."

"Shut the fuck up," He growls, circling up and whiping a hand across his bleeding eyebrow. The rest of the bar has joined in, chairs flying and beer bottles whizzing past at a truly remarkable rate. Dean laughs, high on adrenaline and heat, curling low and thick in his belly. He's having fun, taking his frustrations out in the form of bruises and his smart mouth.

"I never thought I'd want a finger up my ass, but Jesus Christ is it good. First time someone touched inside me like that, I  _cried._ Like a whore. Like a filthy, two penny whore."

" _I said shut up!"_ Shit. Dean should've been paying more attention. Stevie dearest has him pressed against the wall now, his buddies tied up with Sam and every other patron. They're both breathing hard, smirk falling against open mouthed pants that draw burning blue eyes twourds the lips that'd trained up nice and good since Kieth. "Shut your goddamn mouth."

"Or what? You'll shut it for me?" Dean leans in closer, hot breathe mixing, and flicked his tongue out to caress the dude's bottom lip. Steve lets out a noise that reminded Dean of a wounded animal. Dean laughs, high on adrenaline. "Make me cry, fuck my throat till it's raw and gaping?"

A shudder runs through him, and Dean feels powerful. Cocky. Wants to make sure he get's roughed up good. "Or maybe I could just sit on your dick, bounce up and down and make you come in my fucking ass." Closer. He can almost  _taste_ the girlfriend kisses. "Haven't done that yet, you know. Nobody's ever fucked me. Nobody's ever pumped me fucking full, made me cry while they split me open. You could be the first. God, I want you to be the first."

Finally,  _finally,_ a hard mouth presses against his, angry and desperate, and Dean opens up wet and pliant and wide. Scratchy hair scrapes against his face, heady scent filling his nose, and this guy isn't being gentle with him, isn't treating him like a breakable little thing, and Dean feels so s _mall-_

 Stevie jerks back,  _hard,_ and suddenly Dean is back on his feet and grasping at air.

And Sammy's there.

Sammy is in front of him, cold calculating fury burning jealous in his eyes.

Sammy, his sweet baby brother, who hated killing more then necessary, who hated violence when he could avoid it, who still hadn't forgiven himself for the demon blood and probably never would, is currently punching Steve repeatedly in the face.

Oh shit.

"SAM, STOP!" Dean's scrabbling at his arms, limbs shaking and hands uncoordinated, because Sam's actually  _growling,_ drunk and angry and punching the man who kissed his brother over and over again on the ground. "What the hell are you doing, let him go, Sammy, c'mon-"

Sam's single minded stubbornness reminds him so achingly of his father sometimes. The goals he set so impossible to achieve, yet somehow managing to curve the ball every time and make it. But it could also be destructive, and terrifying, and Dean is shaking so hard because there is no fucking way Sam didn't catch him kissing a strange man in a bar-

" _Mine,"_ he growls, low and red hot and drunk.

Wait.

What.

That's about when the police arrived.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY FINISHED!!!  
> My first ever fic, my MOST POPULAR FIC, my longest fic and the one everybody won't shut up about updating, is fine all complete. I hope you enjoy this you sick bastards. Lots of love! Leave a comment if u liked it!

They escaped out the window, because they're awesome like that.

And they don't talk about it.

They're on the road again, Sam asleep against the window on the passenger side, long legs bent to fit under the dash and broad shoulders twisted so his head can rest on his arm.

They don't talk about it because the rule of "no chickflik moments" extends twords sexuality crisis's and the horrifically embarrassing conversation that would've occured about the not-so-secret dick obsession that Sam had caught onto five seconds after the bar fight had started. Thankfully, Dean was a bit more busted up than he'd realized and the next few days were spent bitterly letting Sam drive his baby and force yogurt into his system.

They don't talk about it because Sam almost killed the guy he caught kissing his brother.

They don't talk about it, because that would mean both of them would be doing the talking.

Dean kept the stereo blasting cock rock, just on principle, but he spent the ride thinking. Not about the gay problem, because his obsession with dicks had slowly begun to ebb as Sam began to escort him _everywhere,_ keeping his hands on him at all times, and he unsurprisingly wasn't getting laid a whole lot, what with the giant angry Sasquatch clinging to him like a jealous girlfriend. And it wasn't like these were macho manly  _platonic_ touches, either. Sam would stick his hands in Dean's pockets, or grab his thigh, or hug him from behind when he was trying to order something from the bar. It was...nice, but  _no it wasn't stupid you stupid brain,_ it was  _annoying,_ and anytime Dean tried pointing it out Sam would go all alpha male on him and just hold on even tighter. Just last week he'd tried to talk to this adorable little red head about the death of her neighbor, because they'd been  _on a case_ and he was  _trying to get information,_ but he hadn't even reached the five minute mark before Sam came looming  _out of fucking nowhere_ and just stood behind him with his arms around Dean's waist. Needless to say, Dean hadn't managed to get a whole lot out of her, what with the cooing and  _you're so cute together_ 's. Dean had ended up giving him a piggy back ride back to their motel. And Sam is  _big._ And their motel was  _far._

It wasn't just in public, either. He could sorta-kinda-not-really understand if Sam was being a possessive shit for appearances, maybe to keep Dean away from what he'd oh so eloquently stated as "perverts who deserve to get their dicks hacked off." (And dean would've found the fact that Sam said 'dick' fucking HILARIOUS, if it didn't mean Dean was apparently never going to get laid again.) But he'd use Dean's lap as a cusion during late nights in a motel, or find excuses to run his hands through his hair, ( "If you give me lice I swear to God I am selling my soul to Crowley.")

 Not that Dean was complaining.

Thier entire relationship had been fucked sideways, what with the whole introduction to angels and heaven and accidentally summoning Satan. Some days Dean wondered where he went wrong, what he did to make his dorky baby brother hate him so much. And now Sam was being possessive and affectionate and sharing his french fries again. That was a gift horse that he wasn't going to look in the mouth.

But maybe he could look it in the nostrils. Because this was getting freaky.

Dean pulls over at midnight, drags Sam into the first booth of the 24/7 truck stop diner, exhausted and hungry and so very out of it. It had a small town feel, homely in it's mom and pop atmosphere. They'd been driving non-stop for twelve hours, and the silence was even more acutely obvious that it had been when they weren't crammed in the impala with nothing to do but play the license plate game and think about this fucked up thing that Dean had brought into their lives.

Of course San had to be the first to crack.

“Dean, what's going on?"

“What do you mean?” Dean asks around a mouthful of chili fries. The food is so fantastic that he thinks the cook has to be either angelic or demonic, and he doesn’t even care which, it’s that good.

“I mean you,” Sam says, his own salad nearly untouched. “You've been acting weird. I mean, at breakfast this morning – “

“What was wrong with breakfast?”

“You went without me!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “What, so now we have to eat every meal together? Jesus, we’re not attached at the hip.”

“No,” Sam says, “But we are partners, in case you’ve forgotten. You can’t just - ”

“Shh!” Dean checks the diners around them and the waitress up at the counter, but it doesn’t look like anyone heard Sam’s announcement. When he turns back, Sam’s watching him, eyebrows drawn together.

“And that’s another thing – why do you keep telling random people that I’m your brother?”

“I don’t know what you’re – “

“Dean, you asked the waiter for “more coffee for my brother,” and you told the motel clerk how much “my brother and I” enjoyed our stay. You even pointed out two squirrels at a rest stop and said they were fighting over an acorn like brothers, and then added “Just like you and me!” loud enough for everyone in a ten-mile radius to hear.”

Dean shrugs, taking another bite of his food that he suddenly doesn't feel like swallowing. "What about you, Mr. Don't-Touch-Dean-With-A-Twelve-Foot-Stick?"

Now it's Sam's turn to look away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh come  _on_. You're possessive and clingy and last week you literally  _hissed_ at Cas-"

"I did not  _hiss-"_

"Oh yes you did. He touched my arm and suddenly you hulked out into Mr. Alpha male, dude." He looks down at his fries, (his delicious, wonderful fries,) and feels vaugly sick. "And you keep following me everywhere."

"Well I kinda have to, princess-"

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

Sam shuts his mouth.

"Dean, you've gotta realize what you're doing. Right?"

Shit.

They're talking about it.

Sam's voice goes quiet. "You keep pulling guys, Dean."

Dean just stares.

"It's not girls anymore. You're flirting but you're not even making a move. It's nothing but guys and every time they look at you I think I'm going insane."

Dean's heart start thumping too loudly in his ears.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He tries to sound angry but it comes out more like panic.

Sam slams his hand down on the table, and the entire restaurant looks up, (a.k.a the group of teenagers out past curfew and the lady at the counter pouring coffee,) along with Dean. Sam’s face has gone from confused and anxious to confused and angry, and his hazel eyes are hard, glaring at Dean across the table.

“Dean,” he says in a low voice that nevertheless carries across the room, “You know exactly what I'm talking about. "

The waiter, Tyler, chooses that exact moment to come back with coffee.

The two of them sit awkwardly for a moment, Tyler laughing at some reflexive thing Dean says while Sam picks at his salad.

He doesn't notice the phone number scrawled on his napkin until Sam's fist squeezes too hard on his coffee mug and shatters the damn thing.

"Dude, what the hell!?" Dean grabs a stack of napkins from the dispenser and starts soaking up the sticky mess, reaching for his own when they run out-

Oh.

Eight digits scrawled under the name of their waiter.

_Tyler._

Dean looks up quickly to see if Sam had noticed, cheeks turning red.

"You never blush." Sam says quietly.

"W-what?" Dean awkwardly reaches for the napkin, but Sam slams his palm down on top of his, inches away from the pretty tall boy's name. Dean looks up to see Sam staring at the table top, hair obscured by his stupid bangs.

"When girls leave their numbers for you." His voice is unnaturally calm. "You smirk, or brag, or try to pawn it off on me. You don't  _blush,_ Dean."

Dean laughs nervously, the sound fake in his ears. "Dude, I think the waiter might be hitting on you."

The quip falls on deaf ears. "You don't stutter around girls. Your all swagger and bad pick up lines. You don't _get_ nervous in front of girls." His hand grips tighter, thumb digging into Dean's pulse point and he's praying Sam won't notice how fast his heart is beating.

"But when a guy even  _looks_ in your general direction you start fucking panting."

Dean tries to pull his hand back, anger rushing in to defend himself against the panic attacking his brain. "Drop it Sam."

" _No."_ Sam looks up then, eyes squinted and dangerous, and Dean's reminded of the demon blood pumping through his brother, the anger and resentment and rage that usually stays tucked away in the corner somewhere. This isn't his baby brother. This is a hunter.

Sam's index finger rubs along the inside if his wrist, hard as his voice. "Your pulse is going crazy." As he talked, his pupils dilated. "No girl has ever made your pulse jump like that. I bet fucking Tyler couldn't make you're pulse jump like that. Tyler couldn't give you what you need." Dean squeezes his legs together and thinks about dead puppies, old ladies, anything and everything that didn't have to do with the words that are not _coming out of his baby brother's mouth._

"None of them could give you what you need, could they?"

Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

"Is that why you kept going back? Kept dressing up in that tight shirt and batting your pretty eyelashes and flaunting that _stupid_  mouth? Kept disappearing on me,  _lying_ to me? Because you needed some stranger to fuck you?

"Sam..."

"How many times?" His voice is low. Deep. Sinking into Dean's bones.

"Drop it, Sam."

"How many times have you let some stranger fuck you?"

Dean looks scandalized.

"That's none of your fucking business-"

Sam grabs his other hand, gripping hard enough to make Dean wince. He leans in closer. 

"You  _are_ my fucking business. And I can't fucking think anymore, because every time some asshole lays his eyes on you, I know. I see the way they fucking look at you, Dean, and you're not even getting angry, you're turning into some fucking puddle and  _letting_ them look at you, and I want to fucking kick their teeth in-"

"Maybe I want them to look at me, snotface." Sam's cursing. He hasn't done that since Ruby. 

"They're not allowed to touch you, they're not allowed to look at you-"

"AND WHY THE HELL NOT?"

"BECAUSE I'M-"

Sam cuts off.

He blinks, and slowly removes his hands from their death grip on Dean's.

The  _I'm the only one who gets to look at you_ goes unsaid.

The waiter, Tyler, comes back, charming smile falling off his face when he sees the puddle on coffee and the death glare emanating from Sam's face. "Uh, would you like the bill?"

Sam makes a show of standing up, walking over to Dean, putting his paw on his shoulder and squeezing. "We'll pay up front."

Later, when they're in the car, silence laid in thick and sour with every confusing thing that no one is saying, Dean clears his throat.

"Um, no one."

Sam looks over.

He doesn't look like he's breathing.

"No one what?"

Dean's fingers are white knuckling it on the steering wheel, legs unconsciously spread.

"I, uh, haven't done it yet."

Sam sucks in a breath.

"So... No one. Yet."

Sam looks out the window, hands fisted in the fabric of his jeans. "All the way or at all?"

Eyes on the road. Keep your eyes on the road. "Um. All the way."

"How far have you gotten?"

" _what?"_ He squeaks. He clears his throat and tries again. "What?"

Sam is still looking out the window. "How far have you gotten, with the guys you're hooking up with?"

"Sam, we aren't talking about this."

"Yes we are."

"Sam..." He sounds desperate, even in his own ears. Shit.

"Have you gone down on anyone yet?" Sam's voice sounds deeper than it has the right to, goddamit.

Dean's voice sounds shaky. "Yeah."

It's quiet for about five minutes, and Dean let's himself hope that Sam is gonna drop it, when the next question comes:

"What happened? The first time?"

Dean seriously considers throwing him out of the car.

Instead, he answers.

"I didn't know what I was doing. It was some bathroom in Cincinnati, and the guy just pushed me down on my knees and I didn't know what to do." Dean sees Sam's thigh jump from his peripheral vision. "I choked every time he went down too far, cried a bit. Ended up coming in my pants."

Sam's quiet "fuck" makes him grip the wheel harder.

"After that it was the only thing I could think of. I stopped choking because I got in the practice, kept crying because it kept feeling good. I once kept a guy in my mouth even after he went soft. It was over too quick, I'd gotten that good, but I hadn't come yet. He offered to return the favor but I... wanted it like I usually got it. So I just knelt there shaking till he got hard again and could fuck my mouth one more time, because I couldn't stand the thought of letting go of his cock. First time I swallowed. Not the last."

Sam's breath is coming faster. Dean keeps his eyes on the road.

"Has anyone touched inside you?"

Any minute now they’re going to drift into oncoming traffic and die in a blaze of steel and flame and unresolved sexual tension, because Dean’s looking at Sam, not the road.

Sam looks like he's ready to kill something.

"Yeah," Dean breathes out. "Yeah, someone has."

That's when Dean finally pulls over.

The engine sputters off, 2:00 a.m darkness shrouding the abandoned country road. It's deathly quiet.

"I thought I was gonna throw up, it hurt so bad. But I couldn't get my body to stop pushing back. I've never felt anything like it, Sam."

He can't stop looking at him, legs spreading even wider and hands shaking.

"It's only happened twice. And...this guy, a guy fingered me, and he stopped thrusting too soon. I was so confused, but he told me he wanted to watch me."

Dean swallows as Sam leans closer, expression unreadable.

Why can't he stop talking why can't he stop talking _why can't he stop talking._

"So I... I fucked myself on his fingers. Didn't know what I was doing, just bounced up and down till he told me to stop."

Sam grits his teeth, close enough now that Dean can feel his breath on his face.

"He jerked me off with his... fingers still inside, and he kept touching me after I came. Wouldn't stop touching it, wouldn't stop moving his fingers inside me. I couldn't breathe. Everything was just raw and too sensitive and I think I cried. Ended up getting hard again and let him fuck my face in the bathroom stall."

That's when Sam lost it.

He grabbed the front of Deans shirt, jerked him forward, and kissed him hard enough to bruise, Dean's hands frozen on the seat, hips thrusting forward into the hand Sam's palming over his fucking dick  _oh my god._

"You fucking slut” Sam grits out, biting Deans bottom lip. He squeezes Dean’s dick, palm all hot and damp through the denim crotch. “You unbelievable fucking tease."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to moan, hands fisting themselves in Sam's gorgeous, ridiculous emo hair. He's getting kissed within an inch of his life, lightheaded because he forgets how to breath when Sam starts thrusting his tounge in and out of his mouth, wide open and filthy. He can feel spit sliding down his cheek but Sam doesn't seem to care, doesn't seem to be able to keep his hands off Deans skin. He sticks his hand up his shirt, desperately grappling onto whatever he can, pressing him up against the door and Dean slips and accidentally hits the car horn with his elbow.

"Wait, Sam, hold on a second..." Sam finally stops kissing him long enough to let him get in a breathe, Sam's head tucked under his zepplin shirt and sucking on his nipple, _fuck, moaning_ around it while Dean tries to stop thinking with his downstairs brain and remember why this was a really bad idea.

Sam gropes his ass once before gripping him under the knees and sliding him down the leather seat, Dean smacking his head against the window on the way down and letting out an indignant "Hey!" He seems to pause then, take a breath. He flattens his hands on Dean’s thighs and feels them up and down. “Can’t get over it, Dean,” he says, “look at your legs. They’re just like that huh? Spread already. Used to having somebody between them?" His cheeks are flushed, eyes wide. "Then you always, you always walk like you’ve been fucked. Like you’ve been fucked so much and so hard it bent your bones.” Another breath rustles. “Fuckin’ cruel invitation, Dean.” Sam’s eyes move up his body, flare when they find Dean’s lips. Sam moves so fast it’s unsettling, diving between Dean’s legs, crushing Dean’s dick with his weight.

" S-sam, c-calm down dude-" He somehow wrangles Dean out of his jeans, pushes his T-shirt up to his armpits so he can keep sicking on his nipples, pinching the left one hard enough to make Dean yelp, but it hurts so good and Sam's mouth is making him _ache_ and it's going straight to his cock.

"Sam, oh god, Sammy, baby, s-stop, this is a bad idea-" Dean squeaks when Sam shoves two fingers in his mouth, gags a little because they're really fucking long. Sam finally lifts his head back up, hair mussed up from Dean pulling on it. He leans in close and sticks his tounge in Deans mouth.

"Shut up or I'll gag you, princess."

Dean moans, long and winy and sam curses under his breathe when Dean starts sucking on his fingers. They're both on the verge of hyperventilating, Dean feels really fucking empty and Sam looks like he’ll fill him up real good. _Incest_. The word just appears in Dean’s brain. It’s the most taboo of taboo things and there’s no reason that should make his dick jump and leak precome, but it does. Fuck, that’s dirty, Dean thinks as Sam reaches into the back seat and frantically searches through his bag, almost humping Dean where his big brother's got his lags wrapped around him. He finally finds what he's looking for, looks down at Dean like he wants to lick him as he fumbles open the lube.

It’s already warm from how Sam was clutching the bottle and it comes gushing out with the slightest squeeze. “I-i need, I need to make you feel good, make you forget about everybody else, only me, only me Dean,” Dean pants and struggles out of his boxers, Sam getting impatient halfway threw and latch onto his chest again, making Dean cry out and jerk his wrist too fast. He hears something pop.

“What the fuck is happening?” He shakes out, but it doesn’t seem like Sam is hearing him anymore, slicking his fingers and sinking them inside too quick, fuck, that hurts.

"Know how much I thought about this?” Sam presses in more insistently. “Every day, every damn minute for years I wanted to just hold you down and fuck you. On your back, your stomach, up against walls, on your car. Can't stand the thought of somebody else touching you. Soon as I know we you weren't only after girls I couldn't fucking breathe, couldn't sleep, just wanted you to sit on my face.”

Dean groans, starts jerking his  hips back on Sam's fingers, can't think can't breathe oh my God, Sam's smell and his huge  hands and his fingers fucking inside of him. He slams his hand against the door, chokes back a noise he can't let out, _can't-_

"Oh no you fucking don't," Sam  growls, slapping Dean across the face. The breathe leaves him in a rush, shock standing in it's place as Sam licks across his neck with his hand on his throat. "Don't you dare, don't you dare try and cover up your noises. I've waited too long to hear them. I want to hear you scream, princess." His fingers wrench out, blunt head of his cock tapping itself against his hole and Dean actually _whimpers_ _._ "That's it, good boy, lemme hear you princess. Lemme hear you."

Sam’s cock stabs inside. Dean immediately scrambles for purchase on the cieling, the door, tries to drag himself away from it, fucking hurts, and he’s squealing like a stuck pig— Sam just shushes him, licks away his tears and smothers his "pretty pink lips, Jesus Christ," in the sweetest girlfriend kisses. Sam pulls him up suddenly, both thier heads banging on the car ceiling and Sam lets out a laugh, balancing Dean on his lap and his cock.

"C'mon, princess, bounce for Daddy." Sam murmers against his neck, Dean's entire face going red and snot running down his face. His dick is so hard he's genuinely worried it's gonna fall off. He lets out an " _ngh"_ sound, gingerly slides down halfway, and the last few inches come all at once like he’s slipped. He shakes and pants and he’s fucking skewered on the thing, he’s killing himself on it.

Sam rolls his hips under Deans, like he’s testing how his cock feels in his body. “Better than I ever thought it would be,” He groans. “Fuck.” He holds Dean’s hips in place, forcing him to just sit there impaled and stuffed. Dean feels too full. It aches and it’s uncomfortable no matter which way he tries to shift his hips in Sam’s hold. "That's it, that's it princess. Shit."

"S-stop fucking calling me that" Dean grits out, and Sam gets his huge hands under his ass and lifts him back up. Dean pants harder, little chopped _"ngh"_ pushing it's way from his kiss bruised mouth. Every noise seems to make Sam growl, twitch harder where it aches inside

"What, you don't wanna be Daddy's little princess?" Sam grins, annoying little brother right back where he belongs, but his face goes blank when Dean's dick jumps at the name.

"You...oh shit you have a Daddy kink?"

"I DO NO-ah,  _ah, Daddy,"_ Dean groans out, blushing to the tips of his ears when Sam slams him back down on his dick and starts fucking him in earnest.

"Oh my God, you're _perfect,_ Dean, I fucking love you-" He groans out, skin slapping against skin making Deans face burn.

"Y-you've hit it every time" Dean whimpers out, clawing and Sam's back when he starts biting at his nipples again. "How the fuck have you hit it  _every time?"_ He's meeting Sam's thrusts, pulling his stupid hair forward to shove his chest in Sam's mouth, dick bobbing up and down where it's rubbing against Sam's toned stomach, hurts too good Jesus fuck. "D-daddy, oh my god,  _oh my god, Sam-"_

Sam squeezes Dean’s ass as he pounds him, breathe going choppy. He jolts his hips into his ass and makes Dean’s back and shoulders arch above him. He catches the curve of Dean’s ear in his teeth and stretches the flesh back a little. “You think,” Sam whispers, chewing on his skin, “you think I’m gonna just spend a few minutes on you? Inside you? When I’ve been thinkin’ about this for _years_? You think this is some kind of slam,” another jab of his hips, voice creeping out into a growl, “bam thank you Sam? Huh?" He pulls Dean's head down to him, kisses a sweet contrast to the frantic fucking that Dean notices in the corner of his mind is  _shaking the goddamn car._  Swallow the noises that Dean can't seem to keep in anymire"I'm, I'm gonna take you out to dinner, gonna fucking show you off and spoil you and take you to the movies with my hand down your pants, make you call me daddy while I fuck you in the bathroom stall, gonna fuck you on the goddamn carpet, gonna kiss you a-and hold your hand because your fucking mine-" Sam slaps him hard across the face, grabs his cheeks, and kisses him.

Dean cums with a shutter.

Sam slows to a stop, looks at his brothers tear stained face and runny nose and pink freckled cheeks.

"Did you just..." He trails off, dick throbbing, before slamming back into him and crying out, cumming inside him while Dean pulls on his hair.

 ---------------------------------------------

Sam won't stop kissing him.

"I swear to God, dude, my lip is gonna go numb if you keep biting it."

Sam just laughs, deep in his throat, hair plastered to one side of his sweaty face. He looks like a puppy.

He leans in and kisses Dean on his nose, making it wrinkle up, before kissing both cheeks and than his forhead and then his nose again.

"Cut it  _out,_ asshole!" Dean huffs, fingers running restless through that knotted mountain of hair on top of Sam's head. He only grunts when Sam swoops in and kisses the hickey on his neck.

They lay there in a heep for a while, Dean running his fingers across Sam's scalp, still pantless, legs still wrapped around his brother. He's on his back again, Sam breathing softly against his chest, and he knows he's gonna have to get up soon, keep driving, get them to a motel and deal with the end of the world, but for the moment, he doesn't want to end this.

Sam tenses slightly, hands gripping the front of Dean's sweat soaked t-shirt. "Dean, I meant what I said."

"Hey, no chick-flick moments." Dean grumbles. Sam huffs and grips harder.

"I meant it. I... I've wanted this for a long time, and I don't want you freaking out on me and running away. I'm in this, 200% here for the long haul. I just gotta let you know that."

Dean's words are getting stuck in his throat.

This isn't gonna end well. He knows it. But there's a chance. A small, stupid, hopeful chance, and he'll cling to it hard as he can till it all comes crashing down.

Because there's a chance this could work.

Sam, the only thing he's ever really loved, snuggles down deeper against his chest, and that's what makes up his mind.

It's the end of the world, after all.

"Me too, Sammy." He whispers. He can feel Sam grinning against his chest.

 


End file.
